


Facade

by RobinTheArtist



Category: Now You See Me (2013)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, References to Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:26:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinTheArtist/pseuds/RobinTheArtist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't always Atlas. But he always carried that weight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In all fairness, the handcuff thing was instinctual. 

Contrary to popular belief, Danny didn't like loud noises. Applause was different: applause was a positive noise directed at him. Up on stage, or in a crowd of people, he could disconnect. Leave his head and float above his body, watching the lights flash and the people scream and clap without really hearing, just feeling the ground rumble beneath him. 

It was everything else, every loud, negative sound, that put the magician on edge. Jeering and slamming and the sharp smack of skin on skin. The sounds too fast to disconnect from. The half-second reactions that had him moving on instinct. 

He also didn't like being restrained. That was Henley's thing, always was. That's why she was the assistant. The cold of steel always seemed to settle right into his bones, restricting him with coils of chill, no matter how many layers of clothes he wore. He reasoned it was his control thing: restraint meant other people were controlling him. He had to give up on the control he tried so hard to maintain. 

So, already on edge by chains encircling his wrists, Atlas lied and acted through a conversation made of threats and double entendres, until the hands dropped, and suddenly the handcuffs were flying off. 

Danny knew at that point that the FBI agent wasn't as sharp as he claimed, because if he was, he would have seen the look of abrupt terror on his face, before it melted into a plastic smirk.


	2. Chapter 2

When they finally shake Rhodes in New Orleans, Jack doesn't calm until they're back on the road. Henley's behind the wheel, he's in the passenger seat, and for once, he doesn't argue that fact. 

His hands move of their own accord, cards flying almost too fast for Atlas to see. His eyes find the seven of diamonds, and he imagines the city lighting up. 

He remembers learning that trick. 

He was eighteen, out in Bronx. It was a long walk back to the city, but you weren't as likely to get stabbed as you were if you were sleeping down 4th Avenue. 

He knew a few people there. It was hard not to, when you were in the same situation. Knowledge doesn't exactly mean camaraderie, and when you're a young street rat, that difference means everything. 

The building manager responded well to a subtle knife threat, a few gang members were distracted by the building lighting up with his card, and Atlas lived long enough to lick his wounds in an abandoned Chinese restaurant. 

"In, one, two. Out, one, two, three."

Atlas surfaced from the memory to a gloved hand on his shoulder. Just barely resting over his lapel. He doesn't lean into the touch, but he doesn't pull away. It hovers for a minute, as Henley repeats her mantra and Atlas counts his breaths. 

"Thank you, Henley, I'm fine." 

She pulls her hand away, but continues to count for her former-employer. She keeps this up almost the full way to New York, even after Atlas falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It hurts, sometimes, to look at Jack. 

He's all smiles and laughter, a deceptive twinkle to his eyes and suddenly your down a wallet. He looks at Atlas like he's holding the world up on the tips of his fingers. 

Atlas sees only a younger version of himself reflected back in those eyes, summer nights and cigarette smoke. He see's the flasks and fires and a lifetime supply of lonely nights. 

He knows Jack's different. He's a kid of the system. He's been passed around so much it's no wonder where he learned how to do it himself. Scars cross his back, his arms, his mind. 

Atlas connects the dots left by cigarette burns, traces self-inflicted dotted lines, searches those too bright eyes for hairline fractures. 

It's not his fault he knows how to find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys and all your support! If you want me to focus on a specific moment of the film, or an aspect of Atlas, or even just have a suggestion or question, you can leave a comment or PM me, and I'll get on that ASAP. Thank you for reading!


End file.
